


In Plain Sight

by maremote



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Bombs, Case Fic, Character Death, Eurus likes mindfucking people up, Gen, It's For a Case, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multi, Sherlock in Denial, Subtext, long fic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:37:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maremote/pseuds/maremote
Summary: Mycroft opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it. He glanced up at Sherlock. “I assume Dr. Watson is staying for this?”“Of course.” Sherlock fired back immediately, and John turned to offer him a little half-smile. Sherlock allowed himself a half-smirk back, and for a moment, they both felt up to whatever bomb Mycroft was about to drop.Then Mycroft spoke. “I’ve hired Mr. Breakwell to rehabilitate Eurus.”AKAThe one where Sherlock and John finally talk, Mycroft gets better with help from Scotland Yard, a very confused recent university graduate spends time with Eurus, and things get unnecessarily complicated.





	1. Cause for Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, everything was silent. Then John and Sherlock both exploded into protest, James and Mycroft wincing at the sudden volume. When Sherlock had finished shouting about his brother’s irresponsibility, John leaned forwards. “You want to do what?”
> 
> “This is insane,” Sherlock muttered. “Even for you, this is insane, and you had the bright idea to have me jump off a bloody roof.”

“It’s awfully sweet of you to do this for us free of charge,” Mrs. Hudson called in the general direction of the landing in-between the first and second stories of 221B Baker Street. She climbed the final step leading up from the first floor and stood there, a cup of tea between her hands, gazing up with mild interest at the handyman screwing in the new fire alarm where he stood atop an aluminum ladder. “You know, if I’d asked Sherlock he’d never get around to it, and I don’t like to presume too much on John. Not that it’s likely he’d be able to reach up there anyway,” she mused, “even with the ladder.”  
  
The handyman grunted as he finished attaching the alarm to the ceiling and carefully descended down the ladder, glancing over his shoulder to avoid bumping into his client. “It’s no trouble, miss; every flat needs a working fire alarm, no matter how clever the inhabitants,” he smiled, taking the cup of tea from her and leaning on the railing, “and thank you for the tea.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson smiled in return, clasping her hands in front of her. For a moment, the two stood there, the handyman in his blue uniform, Mrs. Hudson in her neat skirt, shirt, and cardigan. Something occurred to her. “I never did catch your name.”  
  
“Oh- Cormac. Cormac Cureton,” said the handyman, balancing his mug in one hand in order to awkwardly shake Mrs. Hudson’s. Then they stood there again, in silence, until Cureton spoke. “Speaking of names, who was that man you said shared your flat with Sherlock Holmes? The one with the blog?”  
  
“Oh, that’ll be John. John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson affirmed. “The both of them are off somewhere right now- on a case, I believe, but I’m not quite sure.”  
  
“Probably keeping our fine city safe,” suggested Cureton, “with the aid of Sherlock Holmes’s brilliant mind. Solving crimes together in perfect harmony."  
  
Mrs. Hudson gave him a look.  
  
***  
  
If Sherlock didn’t stop playing with the fidget spinner, John was going to fucking strangle him.  
  
Sherlock spun it again, and John snapped. “You do know that’s evidence,” he groused. “You can’t just take toys from the crime scene and play with them.”  
  
“Immaterial evidence,” Sherlock supplied helpfully, and John rolled his eyes. “And I’m allowed to use evidence to solve the case.”  
  
“And how, exactly, is playing with a fidget spinner going to help solve the case?”  
  
“It’s a fidget-spinner-problem. This toy is a welcome alternative to nicotine patches.”  
  
“You know, I would’ve thought someone like you would turn his nose up at- well- that.” John gestured vaguely towards Sherlock’s fingers. “I would’ve thought you’d say that kind of thing was for goldfish like us.”  
  
The movement stopped abruptly, and John was about to congratulate himself as Sherlock pocketed the fidget spinner before he pulled out his phone. “Goldfish. Yes, John, thank you for reminding me.” Sherlock frowned in distaste as he glanced at the screen, and then pocketed it again. “Stay here. I have some business to resolve.”  
  
“Whoa, whoa.” John reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm as he passed, and Sherlock froze. “Business where?”  
  
Sherlock allowed his eyes to dance across the laboratory in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, deserted except for the two of them. “With Mycroft. He’s waiting for me outside,”  
  
John inhaled, pulling his hand away as his heart dropped. “It’s Eurus, isn’t it?”  
  
It wasn’t really a question, but Sherlock answered anyway. “I’m not sure. His message was… unclear.”  
  
He stood there for a moment, eyes staring blankly at a wall opposite him. Then he jolted back into movement, sweeping out the door, his Belstaff coat flaring out behind him like a cape.  
  
John blew out a breath, leaning against one of the laboratory counters. The lab was full of memories for him; many good, many bad, many intriguing…”  
  
And one of a hurried argument, the last argument before Sherlock had climbed up to the roof and-  
  
John ran a hand over his face, shrugging his shoulders to loosen them, closing his eyes for a second, only to be startled by the door opening behind him, Molly coming in, eyes on her clipboard. John turned to face her, only then noticing the young man a little taller than her.  
  
“…I’m telling you, Molly. A small bet, maybe, five pounds? And I’ll prove it’s no guess.” The man had curly, dark brown hair faintly reminiscent of Sherlock and a slim frame, with gold wire-rimmed glasses perched atop his nose and a quiet, calm voice. John waited to be noticed to ask for a name.  
  
Molly sighed, turning to face him. “All right, then. Five pounds. But-,” she held up a hand- “you’ve got to tell me what it is. Up front, before he gets back.”  
  
“Done deal.” The two shook hands, and John took advantage of the temporary silence to clear his throat.  
  
Molly jumped, turning towards him. “Oh! John! I didn’t see you there.”  
  
“Hello, Molly,” he greeted. “Who’s this?”  
  
“James Breakwell,” said the man, stepping forwards and holding out his hand. He was dressed neatly in a three-piece suit minus the jacket, with an overcoat draped over him, the padded shoulders of which dwarfed him even more instead of making him seem larger, and a red-and-grey scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. “Dr. John Watson,” John said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. “What brings you to St. Bartholomew’s?” he asked.  
  
“A meeting,” offered James carelessly, and opened his mouth as if to say more, but froze when he saw the gurney in the middle of the room, on which was a dead body covered in a white cloth, the subject of the investigation from whose crime scene Sherlock and John had just arrived. He turned ever-so-slightly toward Molly without taking his eyes off the body and asked, “Is this it?”  
  
John frowned. “It?”  
  
Molly nodded. “It is.” She leaned towards James, adjusting her position as if to better observe him. John raised an eyebrow, confused.  
  
James strode towards the body and pulled the sheet off the top half in one smooth motion.  
  
“Oi- you can’t just- Molly!” John sputtered, stepping towards the body, but James made a vaguely dismissive gesture in his general direction and Molly hissed, “John, it’s alright!”  
  
John’s confusion lasted a split second more until it dawned on him. “Oh… are you here to identify the body? Is that- is that why the body’s here, not in the morgue- like it should be?” he said pointedly, but Molly didn’t seem to take the hint.  
  
“Possibly,” murmured James, staring intently at the body’s top half.  
  
“I’m so sorry, I just-,” John stepped back. “I’ll give you some time alone.”  
  
“John, he’s not a loved one,” Molly said. “He’s just- oh, it’s complicated. You’ll know soon.” Turning to James, she shifted her weight on her feet. “So?” she asked. “Five pounds on what?”  
  
James leaned back, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Five pounds…,” he replaced the sheet, then spun and headed back in Molly’s direction, stopping to lean on the counter she was leaning on, mirroring her perfectly. “That it’s death by natural causes.”  
  
“Done,” Molly said triumphantly, straightening up with a smile.  
  
John stepped towards them, brow furrowed and mind whirling in confusion. “I’m-I’m sorry, what’s happening? And James- you did see the bullet hole through the temples, right?”  
  
Molly giggled. “You’ll see.”  
  
John had just opened his mouth to demand answers when Sherlock stormed back into the room, looking as upset as the older Holmes behind him. John closed his mouth, straightening up automatically. “Mycroft,” he said with a nod, his tone cold and rather clipped.  
  
Mycroft gave him a look, but said nothing for once, placing his umbrella on the counter James and Molly were leaning on and leaned against it as well. Meanwhile, Sherlock pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and flipped the sheet off the top half of Graham Faddies’ body.  
  
Wondering why Mycroft was here and more confused than ever, John rolled his eyes, jerking up to stand beside Sherlock as they both bent over the body.  
  
Now this, he could do. This, at least, was less confusing than whatever was going on with James and Molly and Mycroft.  
  
Sherlock’s words brought him back to reality. “Molly, the cause of death?”  
  
“Gunshot wound to the temple from the back, cardiac arrest as a secondary cause.”  
  
“Hm.” Sherlock pushed aside a lock of the man’s hair. “Male, late 30s, Irish.” His eyes flicked down Faddies’s body. Carefully, methodically, he lifted Faddies’s arm off the gurney and inspected it carefully, then- “John, could you bring me those crime scene photos?”  
  
It was almost polite. John pushed off the parked gurney and grabbed the manila folder on the counter, handing it to Sherlock, who opened it and spread the pictures out in front of him.  
  
John waited a beat, then asked, “What do you think?”  
  
“Death by natural causes. Sorry, Molly.”  
  
Molly jolted upright. Even John was surprised. “Sherlock,” she stammered. “There’s a gunshot wound to the temple, you can’t be seri-,”  
  
“Of course I’m serious, Molly. Don’t worry, it isn’t your fault. Look at the evidence.” With one gloved finger, Sherlock pushed one of the photos towards Molly. “He was lying on his face, his right arm is positioned as if he was clutching at his heart, so he’s right-handed.” Sherlock moved back towards the body as he spoke, lifting one of Faddies’s wrists. “Slight bruising on the wrist scratches and swelling around the ring finger; the scratches aren’t deep enough to be anything other than nail scratches, and there’s red residue around the marks from low-quality nail polish; so most likely a woman with sharp nails, pulling off the ring. She shot him, yes… but that’s not what killed him.” Sherlock spoke quickly, gesturing towards the photos. “Gunshot wound, yes?”  
  
“Yes, I-,”  
  
“John, do me a favor, will you, look in those files and find what food was in this man’s kitchen.”  
  
John blinked in surprise, then dug through the files, Sherlock snapping his fingers when he took a little too long. “Okay, okay! Uh… all right, he had mostly meal replacement bars, salad bar takeout, quite a lot of booze, and… peanut butter.” He frowned at the last item. “Peanut butter?”  
  
“For blood sugar. A couple tablespoons of peanut butter, a cup of orange juice, a couple pieces of candy… anything like that is easy to find in any diabetic’s kitchen. Either that or pills to do the same job. This man had diabetes, placing him at high risk of cardiac arrest.”  
  
Molly flipped through the papers on her clipboard, muttering to herself. “How did I miss that?”  
  
“What does that have to do with the gunshot?”  
  
“Look at all the blood in the photo.”  
  
John picked up the photo. The bloodstains looked like ordinary bloodstains to him. Something did feel off, but he wasn’t sure what. He was about to say so when Sherlock spoke again. “Look at the amount of blood.”  
  
Then it clicked.  
  
There wasn’t nearly enough. “There’s… barely any blood.” He looked up. “Was he shot somewhere else?”  
  
“No. Molly, how long ago did this man die?”  
  
Molly shifted nervously. “Around 24 hours, why?”  
  
“By eight hours, a body decomposes a certain amount; the heart stops, the skin tightens and becomes greyer, the muscles relax, the bladder and bowels empty, the body temperature drops, the skin becomes waxy, the lips, fingernails, toenails all fade; but most importantly-,” Sherlock help up a finger- “the blood pools at the bottom of the body.”  
  
“No- but Sherlock, the bruises on his knuckles!” Molly protested. “He tried to fight back against his attacker!”  
  
“Quite the opposite, actually. His attacker tried to fight back against him. John, if I were to tell you that a man in his late 40s, married but separated, who lived alone but who, according to neighbours’ statements- you’ll find those in the file, John- occasionally was seen driving a rather unhappy-looking woman into his home, was found dead on the floor of his house with nail scratches on him and a ring on the floor-,” Sherlock picked up and threw down the final crime scene photo. “-what would you think?”  
  
“An unhappy marriage,” John guessed, putting the pieces together. “He was abusing her.”  
  
“Mm. Bruises on the knuckles, wedding ring removed roughly but not stolen, thrown on the floor. Gunshot wound on the floor a little above his head; her hands were shaking. He was already dead on the floor; with all that alcohol in the kitchen, clearly he was an alcoholic; she thought he had passed out from drinking, aimed, shot twice, missed the first time, hit him the second. Her gunshot wound passed clean through the top of his head; minimal blood spatter because the blood had already pooled at the bottom of the body.”  
  
John turned to see James silently held out his hand, and Molly begrudgingly placed a five-pound note in it.  
  
“There’s no case here,” Sherlock announced, stripping off his gloves. He tossed them in the bin closest to him as James cleared his throat, stepping forwards. “You must be Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
Sherlock frowned at James, making eye contact but saying nothing. He turned his chin towards John. “John, who’s this?”  
  
“James Breakwell,” said Molly, James, John, and Mycroft all at once. John scoffed in exasperation after a moment of silence. “Really, Mycroft? You too? Will someone please explain to me who this is and why he’s here?”  
  
“James Breakwell,” said Mycroft, stepping further into the room. “Male, early 20s. Degree in electrical engineering from Loughborough University. I’ve hired him for…,” he trailed off as his gaze landed on Molly, who squirmed.  
  
After a couple seconds, she seemed to get the message. “Right, well, I’ll just be… somewhere else then.” With that, she slipped out the doors, her ponytail swinging behind her. John watched her go, feeling apprehension build in his gut, and once she was out of sight, he turned to Mycroft. “You forgot she was in the room.”  
  
Mycroft’s eyes darted nervously to John, but he said nothing.  
  
John frowned. “You don’t forget things. You’re Mycroft Holmes. You call people goldfish and you can tell by looking at a shoe what the person wearing it had for lunch, you-,” he stopped. Mycroft was looking increasingly uncomfortable, even- nervous.  
  
“Something’s wrong,” he guessed, his heart skipping a beat.  
  
Mycroft opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it. He glanced up at Sherlock. “I assume Dr. Watson is staying for this?”  
  
“Of course.” Sherlock fired back immediately, and John turned to offer him a little half-smile. Sherlock allowed himself a half-smirk back, and for a moment, they both felt up to whatever bomb Mycroft was about to drop.  
  
Then Mycroft spoke. “I’ve hired Mr. Breakwell to rehabilitate Eurus.”  
  
For a moment, everything was silent. Then John and Sherlock both exploded into a protest, James and Mycroft wincing at the sudden volume. When Sherlock had finished shouting about his brother’s irresponsibility, John leaned forwards. “You want to do what?”  
  
“This is insane,” Sherlock muttered. “Even for you, this is insane, and you had the bright idea to have me jump off a bloody roof.”  
  
John winced.  
  
“Gentlemen,” tried James, stepping forwards, “I’ve heard your sister’s intelligence is above par, but-,”  
  
“Above- above par?” cried John indignantly, and Mycroft closed his eyes, sighing. “Sherlock is above par. You’re above par. Eurus is bloody psychic, that’s what she is, and she’s a psychopath, too.”  
  
“John,” warned Sherlock as Mycroft snapped, “Watch your mouth.”  
  
John swallowed, feeling himself momentarily suspended on the wrong side of the argument before he resumed his case. “Mycroft, she reprogrammed an innocent family man into a murderer.”  
  
“Yes, I’ve heard about these incidents,” reasoned James, stepping forwards, “but I believe if you give me a chance- I believe I can-,”  
  
“Oh, you believe,” sneered Sherlock, directly addressing James for the first time. “You believe, do you?”  
  
James, looking to John as if he was deeply regretting having spoken, shut his mouth and blinked behind his wire-rimmed glasses as Sherlock advanced on him. “This isn’t some run-of-the-mill condition. This is a bone-deep hatred combined with an intelligence capable of deducing things it should not be possible to deduce, capable of outthinking the world’s greatest thinkers.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John warned, but Sherlock pressed on, advancing until they were practically toe-to-toe. Still, James stood straight and tall, gazing calmly into Sherlock’s eyes without the tiniest hint of exasperation on his face. “This is the greatest mind in the world, and you can’t just waltz in there and expect to- you’re not even a therapist.” Sherlock’s tone turned incredulous, and he turned to Mycroft, disbelieving. “He’s not even a therapist. He’s got a degree in mechanical engineering, for Christ’s sake,”  
  
“Electrical engineering, actually,” James offered.  
  
“Oh, shut up, James, you’re not a part of this conversation. Mycroft, is this a joke? Is this payback for the clowns? Because I’ll have you know that action was fully justified.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t,” said Mycroft, sounding like he was at the very end of his rope, "and no, it's not."  
  
John turned back to look at Mycroft. “Mycroft, you can’t send in some kid and expect him to walk out of this alive or sane. It’s just not fair to him.”  
  
“I agree,” said Sherlock, turning to face the two of them. John raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often he and Sherlock saw eye-to-eye on moral issues.  
  
“We can’t risk aggravating Eurus with this James fellow.” Sherlock continued, and John fought the urge to roll his eyes. There it was.  
  
“I am here, you know,” interrupted James. “I can hear you.”  
  
“The answer is no,” said Sherlock with finality.  
  
John watched Mycroft’s face carefully. He didn’t seem upset or disappointed- when he said nothing, John cleared his throat, looking to Sherlock. “Back to Baker Street?”  
  
Sherlock, who had locked eyes with his brother, nodded once, a tiny, barely visible nod. Then he nodded again, more pronounced this time, tearing his eyes away from his brother’s face. “Back to Baker Street.” Leaving Mycroft standing there, Sherlock and John strode towards the doors.  
  
On their way out the doors, Mycroft called, “Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock and John both stopped dead, John turning to face Mycroft, who at that moment seemed tired, worn, and almost… vulnerable. Shaky.  
  
“If you want Eurus back, this is how.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed for a second, and he seemed to falter; for a second John thought he might actually accept, but then his expression hardened and he strode away down the hall without another word.  
  
  
  
The cab ride home was virtually silent. John snuck a couple side-glances at Sherlock to gauge his reaction to the day’s events, but Sherlock remained impassive, staring straight ahead.  
  
Finally, John couldn’t take it anymore. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asked.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Well, you heard Mycroft. You basically just turned down your only shot at rehabilitating Eurus.”  
  
Sherlock grunted disbelievingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not the first time Mycroft offered an ultimatum like this. He doesn’t mean it.”  
  
John frowned. “Sherlock, I think he’s serious. I mean-,” he turned in his seat to face the consulting detective. “Did you see the looks of him? He looked exhausted.”  
  
“I’m sure,” said Sherlock in a tone that left little room for debate. John shrugged, facing forwards again. After a few beats of silence, Sherlock spoke. “Anyways, he hasn’t given up. He’ll come round to Baker Street with James again.”  
  
John paused, considering. “When did he tell you that?”  
  
Sherlock smirked as the cab pulled to a stop in front of 221B Baker Street. “He didn’t.”  
  
  
  
The next morning, Sherlock seemed agitated to John- the type of agitated he got when he was on the verge of cracking a case. John walked into the living room with two mugs of tea to find him crouched over a game of chess, fingers steepled, staring intently at the game. Halting in front of Sherlock, John tilted his head to one side. “What are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t move. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”  
  
John drew his head back, frowning. “Who are you playing chess with?”  
  
Quick as lightning, Sherlock moved a chess piece, then dashed around the table and settled in front of the other side.  
  
“Oh,” said John. Then-  
  
“Who else would I play with?” asked Sherlock, frowning up at John.  
  
“I do know how to play chess, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock’s brows and mouth quirked upwards. “That would hardly be stimulating for either of us.”  
  
“Alright. Tea?” He held up one of the steaming hot mugs. Wordlessly, Sherlock reached up and took the cup from him, John walking over to the table and settling himself in front of his laptop.  
  
He opened up a tab and took a sip of his tea, then a thought occurred to him. “You know yesterday when James was there? You didn’t deduce anything off of him. Why was that?”  
  
“Not much to deduce really,” said Sherlock, moving a piece and whirling to crouch on the other side of the table again, blue silk bathrobe flying. He sighed and threw up his hands. “Perhaps you were right, John. Playing chess against myself seems to have resulted in an unsolvable game.” He stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Besides, I was saving my deductions for today.”  
  
“No way,” scoffed John, disbelieving. “There’s no way you anticipated everything that was going to happen.”  
  
Sherlock was giving him an unimpressed side-eye when a knock sounded on the door.  
  
John and Sherlock exchanged glances before John stood and walked over to the door to open it while Sherlock fell back into his armchair. John opened the door to find an exasperated Mycroft and James Breakwell standing on the landing, with Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to be mid-monologue, right behind.  
  
“-and it’s really shameful that you never visit,” Mrs. Hudson was saying, as Mycroft replied with exasperation, “Mrs. Hudson, I’m very glad I’m welcome here, but-,”  
  
“Oh, you’re not, actually, dear, but since you do seem to have some fondness for your brother I’m willing to tolerate you occasionally.”  
  
“Morning, Mrs. Hudson; Mycroft, James,” greeted John, trying to fight back a smile. Before John could say anything else, Sherlock called out from behind him. “Hello, Mycroft, do come in. We’ve been expecting you and James.”  
  
“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” James said, ducking his head as he entered the room. John was about to reassure him when Sherlock spoke. “Don’t worry, Mr. Breakwell, your arrival is a pleasant distraction from my unsolvable game of chess.” He flicked his hand towards the chess set, James’s eyes following it curiously. “And the answer’s still no, Mycroft.”  
  
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, sounding almost to John like he was pleading- a crack in his flawless façade- but Sherlock ignored him in favor of picking up his violin and bow and holding them in James’s direction. “James,” he said, in an all-too-friendly tone John had learned to associate with trouble, “do you play?”  
  
James’s eyes flick down at the violin and then up, and John noted the perpetually mild expression on his face. “No. No, I’m afraid I don’t.”  
  
“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, giving Mycroft a long look. He put down the violin and turned back towards James, a cold glint in his eye that John knew all too well. “James, would you like to know what I can deduct from you?”  
  
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft warningly, and John, too, could sense the danger in Sherlock’s uncharacteristically friendly tone. But James blinked behind his glasses and shrugged, and that was that; there was no stopping Sherlock now.  
  
“You were born in England, raised in a middle-class family, attended public school, had a perfectly average life; you’re used to blending in. You’re a distant relation of Molly Hooper’s; you sit in the background, you observe keenly but say nothing. You don’t get nervous easily, but when you do you fall apart completely. You’re single, partly because you’re not interested in anyone, partly because you have a deep-seated fear of commitment. How does that figure into your plan to rehabilitate my sister, I wonder? You know it won’t be an overnight process. You’re habitually quiet, stubborn, careless when it comes to your private life but careful when it comes to appearances. You’re insecure, ashamed of yourself, unemployed at the moment, reflective.”  
  
John could feel the conversation moving into dangerous waters. “Alright, Sherlock, you’ve proved your point, now-,”  
  
“You’re estranged from your family, or perhaps they’re dead. It’s entirely plausible from the body language that you caused their deaths, or perhaps you did nothing to stop them. Either way, you’re a mess, you mope and spend too much time in your head. You should have a therapist, but you’re too stubborn. You’re utterly incompetent when it comes to personal relationships, and your degree in electrical engineering doesn’t qualify you at all for this job. You’ve never offered good counsel in your life.”  
  
John gulped.  
  
They were all silent. Sherlock accusing, John nervous, Mycroft watchful, James seemingly unperturbed.  
  
Then James, whose expression hadn’t changed an inch from before Sherlock’s speech, spoke. “N E 6.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “What?”  
  
James wandered past Sherlock, over to the chess set, squatting beside it. “On the white side, you’ve got both your rooks, five pawns, your queen and king, but most importantly, your knight. You’ve already backed the black king into a corner; you’ve got a pawn ready to move forward and put it in check if the king moves sideways. Moving your knight to E6…” he picked up the last white night, placing it beside Sherlock’s bishop and pawn at the far end of the board. “Ready for a check.” He rose slowly to his feet. “It’s not unsolvable at all.” He made eye contact with Sherlock, and John understood what was happening up until James added softly, “But you already knew that.”  
  
“What?” John interrupted, confused. “No, no, he-,”  
  
“It was a test,” clarified James, a tiny smile on his face. “To see if I could solve it.” He gazed pensively down at the chess set. “No- not to see if I could solve it. More to see if I would.” James tilted his head. “Just like the corpse.”  
  
Sherlock said nothing, leaving John even more confused than before.  
  
“You went to the crime scene before you came to the morgue,” recounted James. “From your analysis at St. Bartholomew’s, you could probably deduce the same things from the crime scene itself. So the only reason you came to the laboratory was that you knew I’d be there. That’s the message Mycroft sent you.”  
  
John blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “So that’s how you knew they’d come here. You were setting them up from the beginning.” Sherlock shot him a half-smile, and John huffed a laugh. “Bloody brilliant.”  
  
“You wanted to know if I would accept at face value that it was impossible to solve. Impossible to resolve. Impossible to fix.” James looked up at Sherlock. “If I’d ignore the question while I looked for the answer. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? First, you establish the background. Then you see the problem from every possible angle. Then-,” James laughed softly, “and this is what makes you different- you see the problem from an impossible angle.” As he spoke, James gestured. “You let go of the rules, and you-you basically invents an impossible perspective. You have a conversation between the past and the present, and then you analyze all of this, and you find the pattern.” James let his arms drop by his side. Quietly, he finished, “You wanted to see if I’d pay more attention to your conclusion or your method.”  
  
When no one moved, James nodded to himself. “Right, well, I’ll see myself out. Mr. Holmes,” he addressed the silent Mycroft, “you know where to find me.” He stepped towards the door, pausing in the doorway. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning back towards Sherlock. For a moment he said nothing, then- “You didn’t really deduce most of that, did you?”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards. “It’s amazing how easy it is to find information online. Add that to guesswork and body language analysis, common deductions, and, well.”  
  
James nodded, turning to leave. John watched him go, the volume of his footsteps receding, and when all was silent within the flat, Mycroft spoke. “Alright,” he sighed, tapping his umbrella against the baseboard. “I’ll find another-,”  
  
“No,” Sherlock interrupted, looking thoughtful. He turned to face Mycroft. “I believe you may have hit on something here, brother mine.”


	2. Stating Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me rereading my own work: ohohohohOHOHOHOHO HERE WE GO

“You’re quite a curious man, Mr. James.”  
  
“Curious,” echoed James. “How so?”  
  
Eurus tilted her head curiously but didn’t answer the questions head-on. “What do they hope to achieve, I wonder, by sending you in here?”  
  
“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” James replied, pacing slowly along the glass border. He wondered once more at his own insanity at actually agreeing to this insane plan, this insane proposition. When he’d initially been approached by Mycroft Holmes- (“Holmes? As in the detective? Are you a relation?” Mycroft certainly hadn’t appreciated that.) -at Loughborough, he’d been… excited. Thrilled. There was something compelling about being specifically sought out for a job. He’d imagined Mycroft Holmes as some sort of business executive, working in some tech company with scouts in Loughborough who had heard about his legendary electrical engineering and programming skills.  
  
He hadn’t been the least bit prepared for the job he’d been offered.  
  
Of course, he’d turned it down at first; a job with ambiguous terms, working for an obscure sector of the government, which wouldn’t give him any sort of experience he could put on a resume? - but as finding a job close to his own London flat became a more and more unlikely prospect, his options began running out, and the cardstock business card Mycroft had left with him seemed to be burning a hole in his pocket.  
  
Eurus’s voice brought him back to reality. “Earth to James.” Her voice,  soft and perky as ever, held promises of hidden danger, but James kept himself carefully placid with the same placidity that had defined him through most of his life as a negotiator, a medium, a voice of reason. “Of course, Eurus. Where were we?”  
  
“You were thinking about your reasons for taking this job,” commented Eurus, sounding almost bored. “You were thinking about how you almost turned Mycroft down.”  
  
“Yes,” agreed James, careful to remain unsurprised by her ability to read him, “I was. And you, I believe, were thinking about how I haven’t answered your question.”  
  
Eurus gasped softly. “How did you know?” Her tone was mocking, and the look in her eyes was bordering on predatory; she knew exactly how James had known; she was far too clever not to.  
  
James held up his hands, bowing his head slightly. “I’m not here to fight.”  
  
Eurus’s answer was disbelieving. “Aren’t you?”  
  
James rocked on the balls of his feet and took a moment to collect himself, a moment to become keenly aware of everything around him. “No, I’m not.” He meant it, and it was important that Eurus understand this. She was an interesting figure, in control of everything except herself. “I’m just here to talk.” He decided to change the subject. “I’m told you enjoy human interaction as a whole.”  
  
Eurus cocked her head to one side as if to partially affirm the statement. “What I like is manipulating people.”  
  
“Is it now?”  
  
“Of course it is. I’m a psychopath… or hasn’t Dr. Watson warned you?”  
  
Eurus turned her head to stare directly into the camera, and James mirrored her motions. Above them, the metal device with the single blinking red light was watching their every move.  
  
The tilt of James’s head was visible even through the slightly grainy screen in Sherrinford’s control room. Sitting around a table, both equally tense, both equally drawn taut with the memory of the events that had taken place the last time they had been there, were two men; the junkie and the British government. And in the room where a brave man had died only about a year ago stood another brave man, separated from the world’s greatest mind by only a pane of glass, carrying on a conversation like a world’s most dangerous metaphorical game of tennis, with insanity serving as the ball.  
  
Mycroft was on edge, his skin prickling, invisible pins, and needles dancing across his skin. He watched the conversation, staying focused on James in particular, comparing everything he’d seen of the kid so far to his current behavior. Shockingly, he seemed perfectly placid and unaffected by Eurus, and Mycroft felt a queer little pang of something akin to hope.  
  
Heartburn, more likely.  
  
Heartburn hurt less than hope, anyway.  
  
Sherlock was focused on the screens as well; Mycroft snuck a couple glances in his general direction out of the corner of his eye to gauge their reactions. Sherlock seemed as unaffected as James, but Mycroft knew better. He knew his brother well enough to know that Sherlock was feeling his apparent failure to help Eurus all on his own more keenly than he let on, however ludicrous the idea that he’d succeed in the beginning. And Dr. Watson…  
  
Mycroft still felt little currents of shame run over him when he thought about the good doctor, who had been there for Sherlock when Mycroft hadn’t, who had been so strong during their ordeal at Sherrinford, while Mycroft, reduced to a powerlessness he was completely unaccustomed to, had been almost completely useless, had fallen apart and to pieces. He still wasn’t sure he’d managed to put himself back together again.  
  
Beyond the screens, the conversation continued. James turned away from the camera. “So, let’s talk.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Anything you like.”  
  
“I’d like to discuss my potential escape from Sherrinford.”  
  
“Then discuss it.”  
  
“Oh, I am.” Eurus leaned towards James, her hair falling over her shoulders. “I’m planning it right now. In fact, I’m doing more than that. I’m already halfway out, James, can’t you tell?”  
  
“To tell you the truth, I can’t.”  
  
“Let me out, James.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Let,” Eurus said, exaggerating the pronunciation as if she was talking to a child, “Me. Out.”  
  
James frowned, cocking his head to one side. “No. Why would I do that?”  
  
“You need to stop fighting me,” Eurus said with the air of one confiding a great piece of advice to a close friend. “I’m your friend. We shouldn’t be fighting. It’s not right.”  
  
“But I’m not fighting you, Eurus. It’s you and me against the walls, not me against you.”  
  
“Then why won’t you let me out? You could make all the walls fall down, you know.”  
  
James straightened his back, looking at Eurus head-on. “I wasn’t talking about those walls.”  
  
Eurus sat back, then regarded James, the both of them placid, unruffled, and James felt the first spikes of frustration run through him.  
  
He wasn’t getting anywhere playing safe like this.  
  
An idea struck him, and he let it run through his brain and out his mouth in one fluid motion, instead of chewing it over carefully the way he usually did. “Teach me to play the violin.”  
  
In the control room, Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat. What the hell was James thinking? Panic rose with the bile in the back of his throat, and he rose quickly, feeling like he was going to be sick. He needed to get James out of there now.  
  
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said warningly from beside him, but Mycroft ignored him, striding blindly towards the doors of the control centre only to find his path blocked.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said softly, his ears buzzing, a sour taste in the back of his mouth, “step aside.”  
  
Sherlock regarded him coolly, mirroring Mycroft’s softness when he spoke. “You need to give him a chance.” The words were enunciated clearly but softly, a lengthy pause between each one. Slowly, Mycroft’s initial panic began to fade, and he shoved his hands in his pockets roughly before Sherlock could notice them shaking. He turned back towards the panels, avoiding eye contact, shame already welling up within him at having lost control so easily again.  
  
Of course, all of this had no effect on the conversation taking place elsewhere in Sherrinford.  
  
“You want me to teach you how to play the violin,” echoed Eurus. James nodded, waiting to gauge her reaction. Whatever it was, it’d move things along, at least.  
  
“Why would I do that?” Eurus asked, and James once again abandoned his usual careful method in favour of more reckless phrasing.  
  
“Why not?” James shrugged. “We’ve got to spend this time together. I may as well learn something from it, and you may as well have something to do. Besides,” he added, “if you’re going to have me kill myself, I may as well get something out of the deal.”  
  
“Oh, I like you,” Eurus purred. “You resign yourself to the inevitable in public, but what do you do in private? This is going to be so very interesting.”  
  
“I know what you do in private,” James countered. But Eurus only laughed.  
  
“No, James. You know what I do in public, because everything I do, everything I’ve ever done…,” there was bitterness in Eurus’s tone as she turned towards the cameras, and James’s only thought was, good. I’ve provoked an emotion. “…has been in public.” Eurus fixed her eyes on a spot a little about James’s head as she spoke, and James would be lying if he said he didn’t find it a little unsettling.  
  
“What I do in private- what I do when I’m alone in my own mind… now there’s a question for the ages. Sherlock tried to crack it,” Eurus confided, her voice tinny through the loudspeakers in the control room. “He couldn’t.”  
  
Sherlock’s fingers curled in on themselves where they lay on the control room, and he felt a brief flash of empathy for Mycroft, who had grown quiet and reserved after his little mania over wanting to draw James out of the session. Even though Sherlock had meant what he had said when he’d said Mycroft had to give James a chance, even he could tell this conversation was going nowhere. He had to admit, however, it was still moving better than it had when it had been him toe-to-toe with Eurus. He glanced up at the clock, where James still had a minute left to go in the half-hour they’d decided to allocate him for his first session.  
  
“So will you do it? Teach me, I mean.”  
  
Forty-three seconds.  
  
“Eurus?”  
  
Thirty-five seconds.  
  
Thirty seconds.  
  
Twenty-five seconds.  
  
Twenty seconds.  
  
Fifteen seconds.  
  
Ten seconds.  
  
Five seconds.  
  
“You’ll need to bring your own violin.”  
  
***  
  
John was dressed in his coat when Sherlock got home and was pacing by the window.  
  
“So how’d it go? Rubbish, or did he actually get anywhere?” John asked as Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking preoccupied. The detective pulled off his scarf and threw it down on the table near where John was standing, opening his mouth to speak as he looked up, but John had second thoughts. “No, wait, hang on, Lestrade needs us at the morgue, now. There’s been an incident.”  
  
“It can wait,” Sherlock said, his tone sullen, and he threw himself down on his couch. John recognized all the tell-tale signs of an imminent session of brooding and moved to nip it in the bud.  
  
“No, actually, Sherlock, it can’t this time,” he said, picking Sherlock’s scarf up off the table and throwing it in his face. “It’s an emergency.”  
  
Sherlock sat up straight, frowning at John as his scarf fell down his face and into his lap. “Emergency?”  
  
“Come on,” John said, barely even registering Sherlock’s alarm, mind buzzing, trying to figure out what Lestrade had told him over the phone.  
  
***  
  
“Buh-day John-ob,” Lestrade read off the body spread out in front of them. He rolled his shoulders, looking over the gurney at Sherlock and John, who stood motionless on the other side. “We know who the man is, his name’s Ali Razaq and he worked at a law firm as a paralegal, but as to the words, do you have any inkling what it means? Because Anderson’s run it through a thousand translation programs, but it hasn’t clicked with any language or dialect.”  
  
“So is it some kind of code, maybe?” John guessed from beside Sherlock. Sherlock turned his head, inspecting the letters carved into the man’s chest as if with a very sharp, precise knife.  
  
B-A-H-D-E J-U-N-U-B.  
  
He turned his attention to the entirety of the body in front of him, his vision narrowing as his senses sharpened and every single pore in front of him seemed to expand. His eyes began their automatic search, and his mouth began rattling off words and ideas and possibilities zooming through his mind for the others’ benefits.  
  
Mostly John’s benefit.  
  
“The words are written in a fine hand, probably a woman’s, perhaps one trained in surgery. The cuts are precise, but the amount of force behind each cut suggests a considerable amount of drive, either from determination or desperation. The pressure’s even, though, each cut is exactly as deep as the next so that rules out desperation since the adrenaline would have worn off by the time she got to the end of the words. So, a woman equipped with a sharp scalpel took the time to carve the words carefully, with straight lines and neat curves. That means she must have done it somewhere, some kind of facility, perhaps medically equipped; definitely spacious, private, well-lit, with clean air.”  
  
Sherlock shifted his gaze to the man’s head and shoulders. “Clean bullet hole to the temples, unbruised face, unbruised knuckles, no scrapes; so it was a clean shot, no sign of a struggle, suggesting the motive was economical or logical instead of emotional.”  
  
“The angle of the gunshot, the height of the victim, and the location of the body… they all factor into either a very, very tall murderer…,” Sherlock paused, a vague image of a 14-foot-tall man formed inside of his head, and frowned.  
  
“Sherlock?” John asked curiously, and Sherlock shook his head to dispel the concept. He lifted one of the man’s arms off the slab to examine it. “Sorry. Far more likely the shot was fired by someone short, from the second floor of a building, probably built late-1990s.”  
  
He dropped the arm and peered at the words. “The words are spelled Bahde Junub. Judging by the number of consonants used, the preciseness of the vowels, the word was written specifically so that its pronunciation would be clear-,”  
  
“Which it wasn’t,” Lestrade complained, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Nearly had an aneurysm trying to read that rubbish.”  
  
“Well, that’s because you’re an-,”  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock stopped dead, his eyes shifting left slightly to meet John’s. For a moment, they had a silent conversation; then with a roll of his eyes and a slight toss of his head, Sherlock continued.  
  
“Because you’re not… trained… for this kind of thing,” Sherlock blustered, waving a hand in the air vaguely. He cleared his throat and continued, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the curious detective inspector. “Moving on.”  
  
“The word was written specifically so that its pronunciation would be clear, so it’s not an official language or dialect, it’s something someone would use if they were typing in a different language but didn’t have that language’s keyboard. Judging by the parts of the mouth it uses, the way the tongue moves- Bahde Junub. Bahde Junub.” Sherlock moved away from the table, walking a few quick steps to fire up his brain, get it moving faster. “Bahde Junub, Bahde Jun-,”  
  
He froze.  
  
No.  
  
No way.  
  
No, there’s no way.  
  
“Sherlock?” John touched his arm, softly, and Sherlock jolted himself back into reality, heart racing. John looked at him, all soft and concerned. “You all right? Why is there no way?”  
  
“Oh, did I say that out loud?” Sherlock felt unfocused, unbalanced. “Silly me.” He staggered over to the slab, grasping it firmly with both hands to keep from falling over. He was dimly aware of voices, but his mind was racing, racing, racing too fast to be concerned with the present. The present could wait, it was the future he was pre-constructing now; thousands and thousands of scenarios and possibilities all lining up and falling down like ninepins, ninepins or pins at a bowling alley, bowling balls racing down the polished wood, heavy and iron like cannon balls; cannon balls like they used to have in war, like they still used sometimes for ceremonial purposes, for tradition, military tradition, military, guards, guardsmen, the Bloody Guardsman, thin blades, blades slipping through belts-  
  
Blades you didn’t notice until they were embedded deep in the flesh. And once you took off the belt…  
  
“The belt’s off,” he murmured. “We’re in for it now.”  
  
“Sherlock. Sherlock!”  
  
The words shook him out of his addled thoughts and back to reality; he looked up to meet John’s eyes and saw reflected there his own confusion. John was just as confused as he was. John saw so little, and Sherlock saw so much, but at the end of the day, they were both equally lost.  
  
“I’m fine,” he heard himself say. “I’m fine.” He shook his head, straightening up. “I’m alright.”  
  
“Sherlock, what the bloody hell was that?” asked Lestrade, and Sherlock realized that at some point, Lestrade had crossed over to his side of the body.  
  
“Bahde Junub, John.” Sherlock, now that he had recovered his composure, was finally able to think properly. He felt a calm disproportionate to the situation, considering…  
  
“Yeah,” John said, blinking in confusion. “So…,” he shook his head, seemingly baffled, but with good reason. “Did you crack it? Or…,”  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock echoed. “Yeah, yeah, I did. It’s… it’s a blend of… at first, I thought Arabic, but the words don’t make sense in context, so it’s Farsi. Farsilish, as the colloquialism goes since it’s been written using the English alphabet.”  
  
“And…,” John prompted.  
  
“And,” echoed Sherlock again. “It means East Wind.”  
  
John’s face went slack. “What?” His tone was quiet, dangerously so.  
  
“It means East Wind.”  
  
Lestrade drew their attention towards himself. “East Wind? Hang on- wasn’t that a trademark of your sister? The one who trapped you all, and- and-,”  
  
“Yes, Greg, it is,” Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hands. “What I don’t understand is how.”  
  
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” John scoffed. “She’s gotten to James. It only took her one session, and she’s already got him killing for her. Clearly, Mycroft’s intuition about him was rubbish.”  
  
“John, I thought we established that the shooter was a woman, relatively short, who speaks Farsi as a first language. James only speaks English, French, Spanish, Dutch and he reads Latin, it’s in his file,” Sherlock shot back.  
  
“He’s got a file?”  
  
“He works for Mycroft; of course he’s got a file. I’ve got a file, you’ve got a file, Lestrade’s got a file-,”  
  
“Hang on, why do I have a file?” Lestrade interrupted Sherlock, looking disgruntled. “What have I done?”  
  
“Attracted his interest, apparently. The point is, you really think someone working in such close proximity to Eurus is going to be let off without a file? Please.” Sherlock turned his attention back to the body. “It’s not him, anyway, and it’s not Eurus. It feels… stunted, cut off, it’s not natural.”  
  
“Yeah,” John was nodding, and Sherlock was pleased to see he looked like he was catching on. “Yeah, Eurus was all about eloquence, wasn’t she? Uh, happiness is a love song, sadness is a poem. Deep down under the old beech tree. She’s all about the complexity of phrase, sentence structure; just putting in two words isn’t her style at all.”  
  
“Alright, so what are we thinking then?” Lestrade asked. “A guard, maybe? From- Sherrinford, or wherever it was that you said your sister was- locked up, or-,”  
  
“No, not a guard. There isn’t much I trust about Mycroft, but he vetted every single guard who works at Sherrinford after-,” he waved a hand in the air. “Everything.”  
  
John snorted in reply. “Well, last I checked, his security system was rubbish.”  
  
Sherlock’s head snapped around to face John, and he froze, a million thoughts dashing through his head at once.  
  
“That’s it,” he muttered, and a door flew open in his mind palace. He crossed over the threshold and found himself in a courtroom.  
  
The courtroom was vast and familiar; standing there, he remembered calling forward the women who had dated the mayfly man, and even further back, confronting James Moriarty for the first time in a court of law. Once again he found himself standing in the middle of the floor, with witnesses to call and common factors to deduct.  
  
He spoke and found his voice was amplified a thousand times: “The court calls John Watson to the stand!”  
  
John appeared, pacing nervously, still wearing his coat.  
  
“John Watson, state your case,” Sherlock murmured, starting to see the pattern that had been there all along. John stopped pacing and turned to face him as if he had only just noticed the consulting detective. “So how’d it go?” he asked. “Rubbish, or did he actually get anywhere?”  
  
Sherlock waved a hand in the air, and John disappeared. “The court calls Greg Lestrade to the stand!”  
  
Lestrade appeared in front of him, prattling on about the words on the dead body.  
  
“…nearly had an aneurysm trying to read that rubbish.”  
  
“Yes, very good,” Sherlock muttered, waving a hand in the air to dispel Lestrade. “The court calls John Watson back to the stand!”  
  
John appeared in front of him, facing him head-on, and Sherlock gestured upwards; only this time, it was the courtroom that fell apart around him, and the morgue came into view again, rising to surround him until he was back in the physical location of St. Bart’s, keenly aware of Lestrade’s presence close by.  
  
“You said something,” he said to John, heart pounding, “something about Mycroft’s intuition.”  
  
“Yeah, I said it was bad.”  
  
“No. No, more specific than that, what exactly did you say?”  
  
“He said it was rubbish,” Lestrade butted in.  
  
“Yes!” Oh, this was brilliant. Brilliant and disastrous at the same time. “And when you were talking about his security system-,”  
  
“I called that rubbish too- Sherlock, what’s the point of this?”  
  
Sherlock pointed a triumphant finger at John, reaching his conclusion. “The key to all this is the rubbish.”  
  
“So how’d it go? Rubbish, or did he actually get anywhere?”  
  
“Nearly had an aneurysm trying to read that rubbish.”  
  
“Clearly, Mycroft’s intuition about him was rubbish.”  
  
“Well, last I checked, his security system was rubbish.”  
  
“Sorry, I don’t follow,” John blinked, looking utterly lost. “What does rubbish have to do with anything?”  
  
“Bahde Junub is stunted, cut off,” Sherlock replied, “as if it was heard second-hand.”  
  
“Right, but where would someone hear second-hand about Eurus? She’s a secret, isn’t she?”  
  
“John, the song. The song about the East Wind that Eurus wrote so long ago.”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“When she blew up the flat, there was a recording of it on the drone.”  
  
For a second, John and Sherlock stared at each, then comprehension dawned on John’s face and he closed his eyes, leaning back. “Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”  
  
“We brought in cleaners,” Sherlock said, trying to remember. “We brought in cleaners to help take away the rubble.”  
  
“We were so focussed on saving what we wanted to keep,” John muttered, shaking his head and looking disgusted, “that we forgot the drone. We forgot the drone, Sherlock.”  
  
“So someone took the drone.” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, heart thudding. “Someone took the drone, and they listened to the recording.”  
  
“But why, though?” John pressed, looking exasperated. “Why go to all that trouble?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Sherlock heaved a heavy breath. “I don’t like not knowing.” It just didn’t make sense. Why indeed? Why go to all that trouble to carve East Wind into a man’s chest? It couldn’t have been on Eurus’s orders.  
  
Of course, none of that mattered at the moment. What really mattered was that someone knew about Eurus- or even if they didn’t, they had a lead to follow when it came to her.  
  
“It’s a message,” Sherlock realized. “They’re saying they can get to her.” He felt uneasiness tickle the edges of his mind.  
  
“Well, so what?”  
  
Sherlock turned to John, incredulous. “Did you really just say that?”  
  
“Look, Sherlock-,” John sighed, licking his lips as if he was hesitant to follow through with his statement. “I think Eurus is able to take care of herself.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not a matter of what they might do to her.”  
  
John squinted up at him in confusion. For a moment, he looked like he was struggling with the concept, then he shook his head as if to clear it. “No, sorry, I don’t get it.”  
  
Sherlock was about to clarify when Lestrade’s voice interrupted him. Surprised that he had almost forgotten the Detective Inspector was present, Sherlock turned towards him.  
  
“It’s not a matter of them managing to get into her, is it?” the grizzled police officer asked, and Sherlock made a mental note not to underestimate him again. “It’s a matter of her managing to get out to the world through them.”  
  
John stared at him in sudden realization, horror dawning on his face. “Dear God.”  
  
Sherlock was inclined to agree, however doubtful John’s religious beliefs. If Eurus got out again, this time with experience and control over people who’d already shown themselves to capable of efficient, mechanical murder, she’d be even more unpredictable than the last time. Even more powerful.  
  
“So if they get to her,” John said slowly, “she can get them to break her out.”  
  
“And if she does that…” Sherlock trailed off into silence, leaving the end of the sentence unsaid. It needed no voice. The three men stood there around the slab, the weight of the answer ever-heavier because it was undefined. Sherlock felt it settle heavily in his stomach, weighing him down, and he knew in this instant that something had begun that wouldn’t be solvable with a deduction and a dramatic flourish.  
  
Something was beginning. Something huge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eurus: im gonna kill you all  
> james: lol go ahead but teach me violin first  
> eurus: …. Lol ok
> 
> lestrade: damn, that’s a cold dead body  
> sherlock: aaaaaa eurus  
> john: aaaaa eurus  
> lestrade: who dat
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comment and tell me what you thought!


	3. Setting Them Up...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James is v. tired.

The world looked like a photograph dipped in ink.

Yes, ink, James Breakwell decided. Ink was the perfect word to describe the deep, dark, infinite blue-black colour that had settled over London in the guise of night. As his cab drove through the narrow streets towards his flat, James looked out the window at the brick and stone buildings moving past. Stifling a yawn, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass. He’d just finished an exhausting session with Eurus, and couldn’t wait to get home to his empty flat. 

James had used to have a flatmate- a lazy young man named Evan Hartwell- but when he’d accepted Mycroft’s propositions, he’d woken up one morning to find him gone, all his possessions neatly packed in boxes near the door. When he’d questioned Mycroft, the government official had informed him that he “couldn’t afford the risk,” of Evan overhearing anything about Eurus. The next day, the boxes were gone too- if Evan was living nearby, he hadn’t bothered getting in touch, and James hadn’t gone looking, for fear of getting Evan into even more trouble. 

James cracked the window open, relishing the feel of the cool night air on his face. It was really a beautiful night, he decided, and looking at the window, he noticed he was only about a block away from his flat. Leaning forwards, he got the driver’s attention and exchanged a quick few words with him.

As the cab pulled over to the side of the flat, James buttoned up his overcoat and shuffled forwards in his seat, pulling out his wallet. Once he’d paid, he tucked it away again in his breast pocket and thanked the driver, stepping out into the night. 

Above him, the sky was a deep abyss of intense colour, the streetlights of London sparing no star. Below him, the ground he made his way across on his way home was familiar, and he could see in his mind almost the exact path he’d traced walking home before. 

And behind him, hidden in the shadows, following him closely, were two men. 

James made his way to the front door of his flat, pulling out his key as he did so. Behind him, the two men drew closer under the blanket of night, their footsteps growing louder as the need for stealth evaporated. It was nearly midnight; there was no one around; they were free to do as they wished. They advanced on him until James could practically feel them standing behind him. 

James stopped in his tracks and sighed, turning to face the two men. “Hello, Sherlock. Hello, John.”

The doctor and the consulting detective stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at James impassively. Noting their serious expressions, James realized that sleep wasn’t going to be an option for a while yet. Rubbing his eyes, he gestured towards his flat. “You’d better come inside.”

The first thing that struck John was how painfully neat James’s flat was. No, neat wasn’t the word;  _ sparse _ was more like it; the walls were bare, the floor was clean and bare; the walls were white; the windows were spotlessly clean. It didn’t look like it had been lived in.

John turned slowly, taking in the living room. An old grey-green couch sat in one corner, with a folding stool leaning on the wall beside it. A single desk lamp sat on the floor near an outlet, and cardboard boxes sat near the wall here and there. Beyond a doorway, John could see glimpses of a kitchen seemingly as bare as the living room they were in.

“Sorry about the… mess,” James said lamely, waving his hand around vaguely. “Or, um. Lack thereof.” He squinted, and John wondered if he’d even noticed his flat looked like he was about to move elsewhere. John noticed a strange-looking small shrub in a pot in the direct path of the window. It looked like some kind of small tree, growing what looked like…

“Lemons,” James yawned, noticing John’s interest in the plant. “It’s a Meyer lemon tree. I’ve always had a bit of a green thumb. It’s a miracle it even managed to grow in this flat, given there’s practically no sunlight.”

“I’m assuming there’s a reason you were both stalking me at midnight,” James drawled, turning away from Sherlock and John. He pulled off his scarf and coat and draped them across the arm of the couch, then turned to face the two again.

“Quite right,” Sherlock spoke from behind John, stepping towards John, and James had to fight back a yawn. His eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, threatening to drop down over his eyes any second. Still, he squinted his eyes to keep them open, forcing himself to focus on the two figures in front of him.

Sherlock began speaking, something about how Eurus’s intelligence far surpassed his own. James tried to listen, he really did, but everything was sort of blending together in his mind, and he was only dimly aware of Sherlock’s words, more focussed on the bed at the other end of the flat. Soft linen sheets… rest… no Eurus to torment his dreams… no Sherlock Holmes to impress, no Mycroft Holmes to tolerate… just him and his lemon tree. 

James snapped back to reality just as Sherlock seemed to wrap up some sort of speech. “…so if you intend to survive these sessions, you may wish to heed this advice. It is my duty to inform you that all those who attempted this before you perished or went insane. Given this fact, and your lack of practical experience, it is safe to say that the possibility of your success is-,”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m simply informing him of the-,”

“Look, what he means to say is, you don’t have to do this.” James shook his head to clear it and focused on the doctor, who was looking at him with a concerned expression on his face, looking as if he doubted James would survive these sessions. For all his talk, Dr Watson clearly had no more faith in his ability to rehabilitate Eurus than Sherlock himself. James realized that the doctor was still talking. 

“…so if you ever decide it’s getting to be too much for you, you can just stop. Alright? Anytime, no matter what Mycroft says, you can-,”

“I know,” James interrupted, unable to take it any longer. “I know, and I will. But I’m fine. I’m really-,” He stifled a yawn. “Really, fine. I’m just tired.” He waved a hand, wondering if changing the topic would help defuse the situation. “I just need more sleep. I keep falling asleep, and I’ve got a serious sleepwalking problem. You know, one time I even booted up my laptop while I was asleep. It’s been happening for ages,” he added hastily at the alarmed look Dr Watson’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ve been doing it for months, it’s got nothing to do with Eurus, it started way before I even knew she existed.”

Looking a little calmer, Dr Watson nodded. James wondered dimly if they were going to leave now. He really hoped so. All he wanted to do was water his lemon tree and get some sleep.

“Well, I suppose we’ll…,” Dr Watson gestured to the room around them, and James realized for the first time how bare it really was without his old roommate scattering junk all around the place. He decided that he’d do something about that tomorrow. Maybe he’d buy some more lemon trees. Or maybe it’d be better to take it easy with a spider plant or kentia palm. He had to buy a violin, anyways, for his next session with Eurus.

James bid the doctor and the detective goodbye, wondering at how quickly his life had changed, and how often he was going to be stalked in the near future.

 

There was something wrong with John. 

Sometimes, Sherlock wished he was better at reading people. He could look at John and know how he’d shaved and where he was going and what he’d had for breakfast, but he had no clue what was eating away at his flatmate. John was quiet all the way home, refusing to say a word. And since he was the one who typically initiated conversations between the two of them, the ride home was eerily, unfamiliarly silent. 

There was  _ definitely  _ something wrong with John, and Sherlock wanted to fix it.

Still, some of the tension ebbed from John’s shoulder as they crossed the threshold into 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock had to bite back a smile as he followed John up the stairs. He knew John was worried about James and how he was handling the situation with Eurus- John never ceased to amaze with his ability to care for perfect strangers- but he could tell it was something more than that. 

Mrs Hudson was in bed, and Baker Street was as silent as the cab ride home had been. John and Sherlock shed their coats, and Sherlock sat down in his chair, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. John wasn’t one to hide what he felt, so this all felt rather… uncomfortable. He was used to John being blunt and honest and truthful, not silent like this. 

He wasn’t sure how to handle this John.

He wasn’t sure he liked this John. He much preferred his own John. 

To Sherlock’s surprise, John took a seat in his own armchair opposite Sherlock, looking tired and worn down. Sherlock frowned. “Not going to bed?” It wasn’t like John to stay up late at all. 

John closed his eyes, leaning his head back against his chair. “Sherlock, is this really a good idea?” 

It took Sherlock a second to realize he meant James. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You saw what Eurus did to the governor. I mean- is it really fair to put this kid in front of her and expect him to come out of it sane?” 

Sherlock measured his words carefully, and they felt heavy on his tongue as he spoke. “John, do you want to help James?”

John frowned, uncomprehending. “Yes. Yes, of course. Any way I can.”

Sherlock rubbed his chin against his fingers, moving his eyes upwards to rest on the ceiling. “The best way you can help is to let this happen.”

“But-,”

“James has a chance. If you keep telling him he can’t do it, he might start believing it himself.”

John looked like he wanted to argue, but was too tired to. Instead, he huffed out a little laugh. “Sherlock Holmes letting someone do something instead of him. Who would’ve thought?”

Sherlock allowed himself a little smile, looked back towards John. That was more like the John he knew and loved. 

Loved?

Sherlock frowned, shaking his head. One more deduction than necessary. Extrapolation, that’s all that had been. His tired mind had matched his train of thought to a commonly used expression, that was it. 

That was more like the John he knew, period.

But something was still wrong. “There’s something else.” Sherlock shifted in his chair, scanning John’s face. He looked tired- unsurprising, but there was something else there. “What is it?”

John looked up at him, his eyes troubled, and for a moment seemed to be on the cusp of some internal struggle. Finally, he burst out, “Sherlock- when Eurus trapped us in Sherrinford.”

Sherlock wondered where this was going “Yes?”

“And you were about to kill Mycroft, but then you decided to point the gun at….,” John seemed to be having trouble speaking. “Yourself. Instead.”

“Yes?”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Would you really have done it?”

Sherlock knew the true answer to that question. It was yes. Yes, he would have done it. If it meant saving John. If it meant- yes, even if it meant saving Mycroft. But all of a sudden, eyes locked with John, he couldn’t say it. It was the true answer, but there was something heavy pressing into Sherlock’s chest that told him if it said yes, John would be irreparably hurt, and he couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t want John to hurt. He wanted to John to be John; he wanted John to live in 221B and be his soldier, his blogger, his doctor, his hostage-

He said it anyway- “Of course.”- And the flash of hurt that ran through John’s eyes was enough to make him regret it. He immediately wanted to take it back, to say no, to wrap John in his arms and say  _ I didn’t mean it _ but of course he couldn’t do any of that, he just couldn’t, so instead he watched John, who looked like the breath had been knocked out of him, and it hurt worse than anything Sherlock had felt before, even if he had no idea why, exactly, John was so upset. 

“God, Sherlock… It’s just, you know I have a thing about that.”

A thing? Sherlock was about to ask what thing, and about what, when it clicked. 

This wasn’t exactly the first time John had thought Sherlock was about to kill himself. 

For a second Sherlock was back on that rooftop, and the amount of pain in John’s voice was pure  _ agony. _

“I know.” Why hadn’t he  _ realized?  _ Of course. “And…” He took a deep breath and had to stop for a moment to collect himself. John looked at him curiously, and Sherlock forced himself to say it. “I’m sorry.”

John looked totally floored. “I didn’t think Sherlock Holmes did real apologies.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh. It was true. Sherlock didn’t do real apologies. Sherlock tricked his friends into forgiving him or let them pummel him and break his ribs as penance; he punished himself or forced a resolution, but he didn’t apologize. It wasn’t something Sherlock did. It wasn’t something Sherlock  _ could _ do.

Sherlock wasn’t even sure why, exactly, he’d done it now. All he knew was that John had needed it, so he’d done it. 

Anything for John.

 

On the other side of England, two storms were brewing. 

One simmered in the sky and waves, foreshadowing itself with choppy black and waves a sky streaked over with dark greys and blues. Another manifested in a different form, and as the clock ticked relentlessly in the background, Mycroft Holmes sat alone in Sherrinford’s central control room. His eyes burned for lack of sleep and his brain was moving too quickly for him to slow down enough to rest; yet however fast he analysed anything and everything, he knew everything that passed through his mind within the span of an hour would race through his sister’s in half the time. 

It was Eurus, in fact, that he was monitoring; not that there was any point to it. She was safe; the world was safe from her; and even if she wasn’t, there really wasn’t much he could do from here, or anywhere, really. Sherrinford, to most, seemed an impenetrable fortress, utterly solid in its construction, the safest building in history, and it was; but Mycroft knew, and knew well, that to Eurus, it was home. She’d escaped before, and she could do it again. 

“Oh, Mycroft.”

Mycroft jerked upwards, twisting in his seat to see Eurus standing there in the control room behind him. His heart stopped, and his stomach twisted. 

This couldn’t be happening.  _ This couldn’t- _

He stumbled out of his chair, fumbling backwards as Eurus approached him, her steps quiet on the floor. Eurus tilted her head, her gaze intense and searching, and advanced on him further and faster. Mycroft ran out of space and found himself pressed against the wall and Eurus drew near until they were toe to toe, eye to eye, face to face, and Eurus reached out and pressed her hand into Mycroft’s chest. 

Heart hammering against his ribs, Mycroft looked down to see a weathered hand, dark and strong. Near the wrist, cufflinks and the edge of a jacket betrayed the owner. He looked up again to see it wasn’t Eurus, but Sherlock, who tilted his head, smirked and said, “Balance of probability, dear brother.”

Confused, uncomprehending, Mycroft shook his head, while Sherlock pulled him closer and reached for his pocket. Mycroft struggled to pull back, but Sherlock pulled a gun out from somewhere behind Mycroft-  _ where had the gun come from? _ \- and pushed it into his own mouth. 

Mycroft gasped, pushing himself away from Sherlock as the younger Holmes brother pulled the trigger and fell slowly backwards, the deafening sound of the shot ringing in Mycroft’s ears, the blood covering the floor of the room, Sherlock’s blood, spreading up the walls, wrapping around the ceiling,  _ the east wind is coming, Sherlock, it’s coming to get you- _

Mycroft jolted awake, banging his shin roughly on the underside of the table. He spun in his chair wildly, looking around the room frantically. 

No blood. No Sherlock. No Eurus. 

Eurus. 

Mycroft turned to look at the screens so fast his neck ached a little. To his relief, his sister still sat in her cell, alone, eyes fixed on some point beyond the glass. 

Mycroft let his eyes close, panting as he sank back into his chair, running a hand over his face. As the panic ebbed and his heartbeat slowed, his mind resumed its regular pace and red-hot shame pressed its way up his throat like bile, and he had to swallow to force it down. He opened his eyes, looking back towards the screens hooked up to the surveillance cameras keeping watch over his sister, and nearly jumping out of his skin when he noticed her staring straight at him. 

She tilted her head, just barely, but enough to be visible through the black-and-white surveillance footage. It was daring, defiant. Teasing.

A sudden burst of confidence ran through Mycroft, and he knew one thing for certain- nothing was going to get better if he played it safe, hiding behind security that had already proven vulnerable and flimsy against his sister’s massive intellect. 

He rose, pushing himself slowly out of his chair.

It was time to face the beast.

 

“All alone?” Eurus mocked as Mycroft, already regretting his decision, went through security and passed into the cell. Eurus was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of her cell, looking up at him with an unreadable expression Mycroft couldn’t hope to decipher. He inhaled through his nose, calming himself. He could do this. 

“It would seem so,” he responded and tried not to feel ridiculously proud that his voice didn’t shake. 

Outside, the clouds darkened, closing in. 

“Poor little Mycroft,” Eurus said listlessly, somehow managing to mock him while sounding perfectly indifferent to him. “All alone in Sherrinford with his baby sister.” Eurus looked up at him, her eyes conveying a manic intensity bottled up inside a body that couldn’t possibly hope to contain all of it. “Stuck on babysitting duty?” Her tone hardened. “Did you volunteer, or is this the short straw?”

“You’re no baby, Eurus,” Mycroft answered, taking a few steps forwards. “Not anymore.” The twisting feeling in his gut loosened a little, and he felt his fists unclench within his pockets.

“Oh,  _ I know, _ ” Eurus said, her voice reminding Mycroft of the grey-blue clouds outside. She leant forwards. “James is the baby in this story.”

Mycroft stopped, feigning disinterest. “Speaking of James, what do you think of him? Did I choose well?”

“Oh,  _ Mycroft, _ ” cooed Eurus, “you have no  _ idea _ how well you’ve chosen. I’m going to have such fun with you and James.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft didn’t need to feign his disinterest now. However unfortunate it might be should James succumb to Eurus, it would at least give them something to go on, some small advancement towards solving Eurus. 

“I’m going to rip him to shreds,” Eurus said, and her voice was dangerously quiet. “I’m going to tear him to pieces. You’ve doomed him, Mycroft.”

“Have I, now.”

“Oh, yes.” Eurus leaned back again, composing herself. “He might have lived if he hadn’t come to see me again.”

Mycroft snorted. “I doubt it makes a difference how many sessions James spends with you. You only talked for thirty minutes during the first one, and we were watching the whole time.”

Eurus wasn’t even bothering masking her evident amusement. Mycroft wasn’t sure what part of what he had said was funny, but he ignored her reaction in favour of continuing the conversation. “So, Eurus, I hear you’re going to teach him to play the violin.”

Eurus’s eyes were still twinkling, but she answered seriously. “He asked me to. But then you know that. You were  _ watching… _ the  _ whole  _ time.” Some of the amusement returned to her voice, and she almost seemed to giggle. “You were monitoring us  _ every single time  _ we met.”

Mycroft frowned, something in the back of his mind clashing uncomfortable with the current situation. “What do you mean?”

Eurus’s expression hardened, her eyes becoming rock-hard amethysts, the lines of her face sharpening into a cold mask of impassive cruelty. “You’ve doomed Sherlock, too.”

Something akin to fear dropped a two-pound weight into the centre of Mycroft’s stomach, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe. In his confusion, he forgot about his policy of neutrality, and the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them: “No I haven’t.”

He immediately regretted having responded, and Eurus’s face changed minutely as notes of triumph intermingled with the impassive cruelty on Mycroft’s face. “Did what you forget what I did to him last time?”

“You didn’t win last time,” Mycroft answered.

“Maybe not,” Eurus conceded. “But why should it matter to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Eurus condescendingly, as if speaking to a child, “you’ve never really cared what happens to Sherlock, have you?”

Mycroft was careful to keep his expression blank and devoid of any expression. His tone was cool and his manner was impassive as he answered. “I haven’t doomed anyone. And you’re not getting out.”

***

Mycroft took the first flight he could back to London. The plane landed mid-dawn, and the sky had been painted with rosy watercolours, indigo and red and pale yellow and deep purples, with a pale blue emanating from it all, heralding the chilly sky that would blanket the sky during the day. He was on autopilot as he boarded the plane, and still more frozen as he departed; his mind was in a bizarre state, whirling yet thinking of nothing, and he automatically thanked his pilot and driver as one after another they moved him home. Mycroft was like a twig in a creek; devoid of movement were it not for the current surrounding it, and finally he stood in the foyer of his home, keys still in hand though he had passed the key bowl by the door, the door clicking shut behind him and the silent emptiness of the house surrounding him. 

Still, he was as one in a trance as he moved back to put his keys away; he took off his coat and gloves and scarf and put each in its place, slowly, calmly, deliberately. Then he moved towards the phone under the balcony without quite knowing why, and was halfway through dialling when he realized who he was calling. 

“Andrea,” he said as his assistant picked up, and noted with a twinge of detached dismay that his voice seemed to have vanished. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Andrea.”

“Sir, are you alright?” came Andrea’s voice over the receiver. Mycroft realized what he had called to do and forged on. “Yes, yes. Andrea, I require an update on the status of my brother.” He heard his voice break near the end of his sentence and prayed Andrea hadn’t noticed.

“One minute, sir.”

The minute passed unbearably slowly, though it was really probably only thirty seconds, estimating by the dial tone; when Andrea picked up, Mycroft held his breath. 

“He is currently at 221B Baker Street.”

Of course, he was. Mycroft knew he was. This wasn’t what he had called for. “And?”

“And… he’s with John Watson, sir.”

“No, that’s not what I-,”

Mycroft knew that too, and now that he really thought about it he wasn’t particularly sure why he’d called in the first place. He wanted to be told something about Sherlock, but he didn’t know what it was; it was frustrating, to say the least, and maddening, to say the most. He struggled to find words for what he wanted, but before he could collect his thoughts, Andrea spoke, sounding tentative and unsure.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“He’s… he’s safe, sir.”

There it was. Mycroft let out a breath he’d forgotten he was holding as Andrea continued. “He’s fine. She can’t get to him.”

The receiver trembled in his hands, and to his dismay, Mycroft realized his legs were shaking, too. “Thank you, Andrea,” he said quickly and hung up the phone just before he had to grab the table to balance and to lower himself onto the floor. He leant his head against the hard, carved and quite uncomfortable front of the dresser on which sat the phone and closed his eyes for a minute.

When he’d stopped feeling like the world was spinning around him and his legs were steady, Mycroft opened his eyes, his stomach twisting when he looked down at his hands again and saw what he had been afraid he would see. 

His hands were shaking uncontrollably, again, for the sixth time this week.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls comment, hope you enjoyed


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